The Game That We Play
by CleosDeath
Summary: A drabble-like collection of all the moments within 'The Game That You Learnt' that deserve an M rating. Includes dark themes and smut. Sherlock/OC
1. Idle Thumbs

_Description: This is a collection of all the moments within my Sherlock/OC fic _The Game That You Learnt _and its sequel _The Game That I Lost_, which are too graphic, whether because of dark themes or smut, to be included within their 'T' ratings. These quasi-drabbles aren't necessary for the main story to work, but I felt like they needed to at least be written. _

_Part One contains chapters relating to GtYL, and Part Two GtIL, the latter beginning on Page 8._

_This chapter is dedicated to ScreamsOnScreen who said she was curious as to Melanie's drug habits._

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**PART ONE  
The Game That You Learnt**

* * *

**One  
**_**Idle thumbs**_**  
**_Warnings: Drug use_

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, I barely even recognised his existence.

I was sixteen at the time, and most definitely going through my hormonal teenage phase. A rebel without a cause – that's what my friends used to say, but they didn't really know. No one did. I wasn't a rebel, and I certainly had a cause.

It was all so easy; school, friends, family. Everything was so simple, so utterly _boring_.

I had finished my GCSEs at least two weeks ago, and not much else had happened since. My parents were both working full time, my dad as an accountant and my mum as an editor in some local paper. My little sister, Nancy, was still at school. Her primary school didn't get out for the summer holidays for another three weeks. My nineteen year old brother was travelling around Europe with some friends after finally finishing his A-levels. It had only taken him an extra year.

So they were all gone, leaving me alone in a nice suburban house for most of the day. We didn't even have a pet to keep me company.

I could always go out with friends, do what everyone else was doing, but whenever I spent more than an hour with those people I found myself drifting off elsewhere. Why didn't they do anything _interesting_?

But what was interesting? To be honest, I couldn't find many things that were. I liked history, but I didn't want to spend an entire day absorbing myself in textbooks. I would go insane.

So what then? What the hell could I wile away the time with?

The answer had struck my brain a year and a half prior, a few months before my fifteenth birthday.

It was easy enough, not being caught. Any intelligent person could hide it until the cows came home, as long as you didn't do anything stupid. And obeyed the rules of course. The rules were crucial.

_1) Never take more than you need_

_2) Be selective about where you are_

_3) Learn your family's routines and take advantage of them_

_4) Use as many different sources of income as possible_

_5) Destroy all evidence_

And most importantly of all;

_6) Don't let the cravings overcome rational thought_

The first one was simple enough. There was no defining amount, as my tolerance was always rising, but as long as I knew a base figure from my last few uses, and always kept in mind the highest safe quantity, it was fine.

The second one took more thought. Home was safest, it always was. But sometimes it was out of bounds, and other settings needed to be considered. Not a friend's place – they couldn't be trusted with the secret. And the street was never going to be a good idea. That's where Number Three came in. Plan and memorise. Know exactly what times the house was going to be free and schedule around it. If desperate, then an emergency location could be found at the last minute.

Number four was common sense. It wasn't a cheap hobby, six year olds knew that, but if individual members of the family noticed an excessive amount of their money just disappearing around them, it was going to raise suspicions. Pick and choose. Don't take too much at once, and don't take from the same person too often.

Rule Five was trickier. Never leave anything lying about, not even in bags or cluttered cupboards. Get rid of everything as soon as possible, and before that keep it in designated safe places. Don't keep everything together. If worse came to worse, then individual items could be explained away. The whole shebang could not.

Those five rules weren't necessarily easy to maintain, especially with unexpected trips home from work or a rather cloudy state of mind, but it was the final rule that caused the most problems. It was also the most serious. If my judgement and rationality failed me, then the other rules would collapse around me. In the direst of times, when I came far too close to spoiling everything, there was always my last resort at keeping my wits. My parents. Imagining the tortured looks of disappointment and self-doubt on their faces were they ever to find out. The thought chilled me to the bone. They wouldn't be able to take it. And I would not let my actions hurt them.

It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't cool. But it also wasn't that pain-filled journey into the soul that everyone thought it was.

It was just… It was different from everything else.

I had started off small. While ibuprofen and APAP do nothing, some over the counter painkillers contain small amounts of a bigger prize. They're usually mixed up with a whole bag of crap that, when taken in excess, will destroy your liver and stomach. But getting rid of those things was so painstakingly _simple_ with a cold water extraction. At first, this meant it didn't feel wrong at all. You could buy the stuff anywhere, so it must be alright. And it wasn't injecting or snorting, it was a simple drink. What was wrong with that? If it was truly bad, then the drug companies wouldn't make it so easy to access.

But like with anything, it grew. A ceiling dose of codeine wasn't enough anymore, and soon I became bored with the slow burning effect of DHC. I needed to find something else. And then there entered Duck into my life.

I had only admitted to myself three months ago what I was – an addict. Plain and simple. I could see it in me. The longing, the burning. And it didn't make me feel great or special. But there it was, and, sometimes, all you need is a distraction.

This afternoon in June was exactly the same.

I had woken up around midday, my head throbbing and my stomach aching. I had put it off as long as possible, thinking I needed to take a break to chill for a day or two, but TV was hopeless and there was nothing on the radio that wasn't either the Spice Girls, U2 or Oasis. I didn't want to read. That required to much mental activity and my brain was currently still trying to rearrange itself into something more normal. I didn't have any hobbies – computer games were too weird, art and music were out of my league, and sport made my body sore for days.

But I couldn't lie and stare at the ceiling for any longer.

Just a little bit then. Not enough to get me soaring, but just the right amount to make everything slightly less grey. Plus it would help my headache and stomach cramps. Well, it'd make them worse later but that didn't matter, did it? Later was unimportant.

I didn't bother checking my reflection in the hall mirror on the way out. I knew I looked like a mess. No doubt my bleached-blonde shoulder length hair was all over the shot and the thick eyeliner I put on last night had given me a nice case of the panda eyes. And I probably smelt awful. My pasty skin certainly felt greasy and disgusting. But I honestly could not be bothered to shower or change clothes. My plaid shirt and high-rise stone-washed shorts would have to do.

I shoved on my high-tops and slammed the door shut on my way out, only just remembering to lock it before shuffling down the street. The sun was too damn hot and I tried to stick to the shade as much as possible.

I knew exactly where I was heading. At this time in the day, on a weekday, there was only one place to find Duck.

The town centre was kind of quiet. It was only the elderly and teenagers who had already finished their exams that were out and about. I sat on the metal bench and scanned the high street.

I wasn't that observant – I certainly couldn't tell anything about a person by just looking at them – but there was one group of people I could spot a mile off.

Junkies are always stereotyped as young grungers, living in filth and stealing to earn enough money to buy their next hit. But when you were on the inside, you quickly learnt they could be anyone. High-powered businessmen, teachers, lawyers – anyone with a weakness for pleasure. Of course, there's always certain giveaways.

When they're sober, they'll be the ones on the outside of the group, having become too accustomed to letting the drug do the talking. They'll be the ones with that strange grey tone to their skin, not always pale, but dull. They'll have that odd look about them of someone who doesn't eat enough, in order for the rush to hit them harder, but will also be puffy with water retention. They'll also be snacking on something disgusting and sugary. If anything gave you a sweet-tooth, it was a heavy dose of the good stuff.

There was one guy hanging around by the drinks machine who clearly fit all of these categories. He was wearing a suit, so a worker, but it was cheap and nasty, so not a well-paid worker. He was also staring at a door across the road. A door I knew I needed to go through.

I stubbed out my cigarette and stood, slowly making my way over to the large garish building. I pushed open the glass door and walked calmly inside, past the shelves on my left stocked with various types of sweets and the aisles on my right lined with VCRs. God, I hated Woolworths.

I steered past an old lady checking out cheap toys and stopped in front of the customer service desk. The young man behind it looked up.

"Hey, Duck."

"Oh, hey Annie." The boy greeted me. He looked respectable enough. A friendly, blonde-haired, blue-eyed twenty-something year old who was working to get him through his studies. Little did any of the usual customers realise he wasn't studying for anything at all; he already had a better paying side job. "How you doing?"

"Oh, you know," I replied casually, "my stomach's killing me."

Duck laughed. "Yeah, that happens, doesn't it?"

I rolled my eyes. Duck didn't really know. He wasn't a user. And if there was one thing that no one ever mentioned about recreational opiate use, it was the damn constipation.

"You need something?" he asked offhandedly. I nodded. He checked his watch. "Alright, I'll meet you outside in ten."

* * *

When I had met Duck in the empty side alley fifteen minutes later, I wasn't alone. The man in the suit had been there too, although he had quickly dashed off when he saw me coming. I barely had time to register the mop of dark curls or the high cheek bones before he had disappeared back around the corner into the main street. I didn't ask Duck about him. He was clearly just another buyer, although I was guessing he was new in town since I hadn't seen him before. And from the fact I didn't see him again, it appeared he had left shortly after. Or he had given up. But no one really did that.

I had used a tenner I had fished out of my mum's purse yesterday to pay Duck. Now I would have to wait another week before getting the cash from her again. Rule number four. At least the amount I had bought would tie me over for a few days, if I managed to stick to some level of self-control. Which I would of course – Rule Six.

When I got home I went straight into the kitchen and grabbed what I needed. The next stop was my room where I slumped down onto my bed, taking out what I needed then and stuffing the rest at the bottom of a crate full of old NMEs under my bed. I reached behind my headboard and pulled forth the small tin hidden there.

I didn't do the whole intravenous thing, although in some of my worst moods I had seriously been tempted, but IVing eventually made your veins collapse, and it would progressively get more and more difficult to sustain a habit. But I still used a needle. And that meant dissolving the base in lemon juice, water and heating over my disposable lighter.

I filled the syringe further than I had thought I would, but at this point I wasn't bothered. The sun had made my headache worse, and the walk into town had only increased my boredom. I wanted to feel something, and a little shot wasn't going to do anything. I needed a rush.

I found that my hands were shaking ever so slightly as I tugged up the hem of my shorts and swiftly plunged the needle into the most muscular part of my thigh. It would take longer than if I had found a vein directly, but that was what I needed. Now I had seven minutes to clear up and complete Rule Five.

After five minutes, the tingling started in my fingers and toes – a warning sign that I needed to hurry up with my cleaning. I had only just managed to put everything back in its rightful place and collapse onto my bed when it started.

My skin was getting warmer and my limbs were getting heavier. It was like I was melting down into the sheets covering my bed, turning into a liquid and yet remaining in my solid shape. And if I was liquid, then why was my mouth so dry?

When you say this, when you actually describe the subtle feelings, it sounds horrendous. No one would enjoy being melted and thirsty at the same time. But it wasn't like that. It wasn't nasty. If it was then no one would become an addict in the first place.

It was euphoric.

There are hardly any words that could actually describe the immense sensations that washed over you. It wasn't happiness. After the initial rush you would feel a strange contentment, but never truly happy. The rush was simply a pure dose of pleasure, shocking your body to the core. The closest I've ever come to feeling it was in the deepest moments of an orgasm, when everything else drifted away. But even that doesn't begin to describe the two minutes of utmost gratification that comes with a nod.

And then, after it fades away and the first jump grinds down to an end, the pain-killers truly work their magic. The drowsiness sets in as all your muscles begin to relax. You can't focus on anything in your mind. It's all cloudy and distant. The outside world isn't important anymore. It can't hurt you here. You're wrapped up inside your own cotton-wool barrier. Your breathing slows as even your lungs unwind and revel in the experience. Soon you'll start to feel alert again, almost excruciatingly so, and everything will be so detailed and significant to you, but the drowsiness will return. You'll fluctuate between these two states, each one pleasurable in its own way, and the flux will mean that neither one gets boring.

You don't see stars. You don't visualise strange colours and patterns in your mind. You don't hallucinate.

_With poppies, you feel._

* * *

_What d'you think? I tried to make the descriptions as honest as possible, and btw yes I do know from experience. I get really annoyed when I read a fic with truly outrageous accounts of drug use. It's like theyre trying to make it cool or something and completely bypassing the whole point._

_The coming chapters will skip forward to coincide with _The Games That YouLearnt_ timeline, and yes, there will be Sherlock/Melanie smut._

_Review?_


	2. Killed the Cat

_Just so you know, I'm going to be putting a chapter reference for when these scenes happen within the timescale of _The Game That You Learnt _at the start of each of these. Hopefully, that'll make things simpler._

* * *

**Two  
**_**Killed the Cat**_  
_When: 5 (Indulgence)  
Warnings: Smut_

The first time I saw Sherlock Holmes without his shirt on, I was more than a little surprised.

It wasn't necessarily the image of a half-naked Sherlock that surprised me, but the entire situation I had landed myself in.

It was unnerving. I wasn't a slut, I knew that. And I wasn't the type of girl who gave it up on the first date. Sure, I _used_ to be like that. But that was in my teenage years when I'd do anything to feel connected to another human being. I had progressed in the past ten years. I was twenty eight. An adult. And my dating habits were almost normal.

Except when it came to Sherlock Holmes, it seemed.

But there was something about him, something different, something interesting. I needed to know more. I yearned for it.

So there I was, standing in the middle of some guy's flat whom I had met not three days ago, with the full intention of taking things to a slightly more intimate level. Part of me was relieved when he turned me down, fearing that I was regressing into days I didn't want to visit again. And yet I still couldn't leave it alone like I should have.

It was my own fault.

It was my choice to have lunch with him. It was my choice to go to his apartment. It was my choice not to push him away when his tongue invaded my mouth. And it was most definitely my choice to follow him upstairs.

It was dangerous and stupid, but I barely noticed the warning signs as they flashed up inside my brain. They were unimportant. What was important was how bloody unfair it was that I knew virtually nothing about this man. I _needed_ to know. My curiosity would never be sated otherwise.

When I entered the room, he was standing by the window – not looking outside, but staring resolutely at the closed curtains. I shut the door softly and leant against it, wondering what my next move should be. I couldn't exactly just pounce on him, but at the same time I felt as if any words I were to say would surely be unnecessary. What could I have said? I was never one for bedroom talk. It was pointless.

As suddenly as he had moved earlier, he swept around and strolled towards me. This time however, he stopped several inches away. I looked into those cold calculating eyes and found myself secretly praying for him to make a move. Anything, just anything, that would lessen the distance between us. Physically and mentally, but not emotionally. I wanted to see inside that mind, but I didn't want to feel it.

Almost painfully slowly, Sherlock raised a hand and placed it on the side of my neck. His touch was warm. I didn't know why that shocked me the way it did. Had I been expecting a coldness in his skin to match that of his personality? But there it was, as warm and solid as any other person I had known.

He didn't say anything, as if he already knew of my hatred of instigating conversation, which, I corrected myself, he probably did.

The longer he stared at me, the more I couldn't take it, but the more I didn't want to look away. There was something in that gaze, something so primal and wild, yet so logical and together. It was confusing and captivating. I could see it in him – the knowledge that that was what he had done. Captured me.

He took a final step towards me, so that the clothes on our bodies were just brushing against each other, and finally, after what I had thought was far too long, he leant forwards.

His lips were soft this time, almost agonizingly so, barely pressing against mine. I knew what he was doing – I could feel it in the gentle touch of his mouth and the feeble stroking of his thumb against my throat. He was teasing me. Testing to see what I would do. This was as much of an experiment to him as it was to me. Both of our curiosities had been tempted.

I thought about playing along in his game, about letting his touch slowly taunt my senses, but I found I couldn't. It was too much. My longing was too much.

I felt his lips curve slightly upwards as I pressed further against him, forcing my mouth against his ardently. My hands had found their way to his chest, where they clutched at the silky material of his shirt. I leant into him, dissolving the air between our forms. His right hand crept further around my neck, and the soft touch was quickly replaced by a firm hold, keeping my lips on his. I felt his other hand land gracefully on the small of my back, gripping me tightly to him. His lips parted and I relished in the feeling of his tongue exploring my mouth.

Kissing Sherlock was strange. As I would soon become accustomed to when around him, he was always one step ahead, judging what to do milliseconds before I had started to adjust my body language to convey the message. But far from feeling out of my depth, as if he was taking things too fast, it seemed right. He wasn't jumping in, but merely implementing my thoughts before I had the chance to. It was as if he was reading my very thoughts.

We stumbled backwards, still in our embrace, but it was now becoming more urgent. I tugged at his shirt, pulling it loose from his waistband. His fingers had managed to find the concealed zip at the back of my pencil skirt and slid it down easily. I wiggled as he yanked the material down over my hips so that it fell to the floor in a heap. I didn't even bother undoing most of the buttons and we were forced to separate our lips for a second as I lifted his shirt over his head and discarded it flippantly.

I traced my fingers down his bare chest, delighted to find that his entire body, not just his hands, was warm and undeniably human. You could tell when you saw him dressed just how slim he was, but I had no idea how lean his entire torso would be, as if any fat simply melted away and was replaced by a thin but hard layer of muscle. His tongue began assaulting my neck, sending shivers all the way down to my toes and causing a gasp to escape my lips.

I pushed him further backwards until I heard his legs strike the end of the bed. His mouth had made it all the way down to my collarbone by the time we fell back, Sherlock not even letting out a small huff as I landed on top of him. I barely felt his fingers as they started popping open my shirt buttons, starting at the top and working their way south. Our lips connected briefly again before it was my turn to explore his throat. I finally managed to crack his cool exterior as I nibbled on his earlobe, my hands brushing over his nipples, and a moan grumbled out of his mouth. He stripped my shirt away, his hands fixing themselves on the bare flesh of my waist.

Apparently he had had enough of playing quarry and in less time than I had to register what was going on, I found myself on my back, Sherlock leaning over me, no longer half-hanging off the bed. Sherlock wanted his control. His face made it clear to me – he was in charge of this. I didn't really mind, to be honest, especially since he had found the extra sensitive spot on my lower back even before my top had come off. It had taken my last boyfriend a month to figure that out.

We sat up momentarily, as he smoothly undid the clasp to my bra and tossed it away to the side. Now his hands were free to roam my ample chest, causing a loud groan to surface from my throat as his fingers swept their way along my breasts. His lips found mine again, all pretence at gentleness abandoned. My hands moved down to his belt buckle, roughly tugging at it until it came undone. My mind was ablaze. I barely even recognised my actions as I jerked the button on his trousers undone and slid the zip down. I felt rather than saw Sherlock kick off his shoes and I quickly did the same, for once not caring what state they landed in.

His mouth left mine and he shifted downwards. I moaned as he began sucking greedily on my nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. I heaved my hips up as he pulled on my tights and knickers, forcefully rolling them down over my thighs. We both kicked at them for a few seconds until at last they slipped over my feet and onto the bed.

His tongue left my chest and he returned to my eyelevel once more. He aided my attempts at removing his trousers, shaking them free of his long legs, his boxer shorts gone with them. Neither of us had the patience to wait anymore. Our bodies were both burning with want. My right hand twisted itself up in his dark hair, pulling his face down so that we could share another desperate kiss.

His hands were pushing my thighs apart. His stance was adapting for his next move.

Something snapped in my head and I suddenly put a hand to his chest and pushed him away. He frowned at me as he hovered above, his eyes portraying his confusion.

"Do you have a condom?" I asked, grateful that I had at least managed to keep enough of my brain cells intact to remember that important detail.

His jaw tightened. "Does it look like I have a condom?"

My eyes narrowed and I gritted my teeth together. Even at a moment like this, he could still manage to be a giant arse.

"Yes or no." I asked very slowly, my pride battling furiously with my lust to let me kick him in the jewels. At the moment, neither side was winning.

His face remained stern as he answered clearly. "No."

Fuck.

I let out a monumental sigh and turned my head upwards to stare at the headboard, more than a small part of me whining like a little kid inside. Sherlock obviously got the message as, without saying another word, he rolled off of me and flopped onto the bed beside me. I shifted my gaze to him. He looked more than a little upset. And so was I, actually. And certain parts of my anatomy were being extremely vocal in their complaints.

We had come all this way. We were so close. But it looked like there would be no cigar.

I shut my eyes and grimaced. My body could not stand being teased like that.

I practically jumped off the bed and began yanking on my skirt. "There's a chemist's down the road, right?"

Sherlock raised his head to watch me, the tiniest hint of a frown crossing his forehead. "Yes."

"Well, then," I said breathlessly, slipping into my shirt and hurriedly doing the buttons up. After fumbling for a minute, not being aided by the fact that I got the buttons in the wrong holes the first time, I walked around the bed, leant down, and gave Sherlock a small peck on the lips. I hopped over to the door, fixing on my heels with one hand, while freeing my lopsided hair from its clip with the other. "I'll be back in five minutes."

I couldn't help but chuckle at Sherlock's commanding words as I walked out of the room, closing the door behind me.

"Make it three."

* * *

_Haha. Sorry, couldn't resist putting that last bit in. _

_Thanks for the reviews last time! Again again again? _

_Ok, teletubbies not exactly the right thing to think about after a chap like that._


	3. Over My

**Three  
**_**Over My**_  
_When: 15 (Indecency)  
Warnings: gruesome descriptions_

The first time I visited a morgue, I knew that pathology was not for me.

To be honest I had known that particular point since I was six years old, but this little expedition merely confirmed it was something I was not cut out for in life. Never mind the headache-inducing white walls or the nauseating stench of chemicals, even without these things I was certain that I would never work down here. For one thing, it was kind of cold.

For another, corpses were not fun.

They were disgusting. They were foul. And they most definitely were _not_ on my list of things to see before I die (no irony intended).

I had seen a body before, but that was a long time ago, and it wasn't anything gory. My grandmother died when I was nine. I was there. But so were my mother and older brother. It wasn't a horrific experience that caused me to have a fear of death and blood forever after – I hadn't liked blood before that and I've never been afraid of death.

If anything, it was far too normal for comfort. One moment, she was sitting up in the hospice bed, fitting the final piece of her puppies puzzle together, and the next, she had leaned back into the pillow and closed her eyes. I thought she was asleep. She looked it. Nothing else was wrong with her; apart from the fact that – as my brother had pointed out to me last week – she was getting decidedly thinner. Her skin was a normal wispy peach. Her hair was the usual white curls. Her hands were still lovingly warm. The only difference was that her chest no longer moved with each breath she took, and I slowly came to realise that this was because she wasn't breathing at all.

It was a corpse, I knew that, but I didn't like to think of Granny like that, even if it was true. Maybe if she had actually looked like a dead person should then that would be different. Maybe if her skin was blue and her eyes glazed over then I would be able to see that moment as the first corpse I ever saw.

Maybe if she was more like the second…

Going with Sherlock to Barts had been a bad idea. I should have let him take me back to my apartment in the first place, where I would have been safe and warm… worried sick, of course, but at least I wouldn't have had to see that _thing_.

That _thing_ had almost caused me to faint.

The skin was definitely blue, but as for the eyes being glazed over, well, it was a little hard to tell. They weren't exactly in the right places.

I hadn't even looked at it for that long, only a couple of seconds really, but even so I knew I never wanted to see something like that again.

The train had certainly done its job in killing him. A scary part of my mind took in the injuries and calculated what the impact must have been like. He must have hit it from the side as the entire left hand side of him was folded disturbingly inwards on itself. A few of his ribs were sprouting forth from his skin at completely wrong angles. His arm didn't even look like an arm any more, and I wondered how it had even stayed attached to his torso. Despite this, despite the horrifying nature of his injuries, there wasn't any bruising. His skin was pale and clear in the sections where it had remained intact. In others it had been scraped away, like a graze gone seriously bad.

He must have rolled across the pebbles on the ground for several meters.

His jaw was crooked against the rest of his head, and his nose was virtually unidentifiable. The bowl of his skull itself was dented, causing the round shape to flatten unnervingly above his left temple.

Two of his fingers were missing.

Perhaps they had been sliced off by the wheels of the train, I couldn't tell, and I definitely would not be asking.

I hated the grisly image before me. I loathed it more than I had loathed anything before. I needed to look away. I needed to be somewhere else. _Anywhere_.

Even if that place was Sherlock Holmes' arms.

* * *

_Short, I know. But it adds a certain degree of insight into Melanie's mind that I felt I couldn't put into the actual chapter._

_Just FYI, I'm trying to catch this fic up to the main storyline before continuing with that, but it won't take that long as there's only a couple of chaps to go before they coincide. Sorry for anyone who wants to know whats gonna happen desperately, but to make up for it I think the next one of these will be smut again. _

_It's not all doom and gloom and severed fingers._

_Review? _


	4. The Blue

**Four  
**_**The Blue**_  
_When: 18 (Internment)  
Warnings: Smut_

The first time I had sex in an office, it was a little different to how I'd imagined it.

It happens in films and on TV all the time, and each time it's always the same. Papers are shoved off of the desk, bodies are thrown on top of it instead, lips are crashed together in a desperate need for the other's touch. It's all excitement and frantic desire, and complete disregard for their surroundings.

I'd never experienced that with someone before. Sure, I had felt a burning want for someone. And in some of my drunker moments I hadn't cared about where we were. But having both those sensations at the same time – no, having such a strong want that your environment becomes insignificant – that was something foreign to me.

My brain would just not work that way. It needed to analyse where I was and the possible consequences of my actions.

Doing the nasty in my office would therefore only lead to trouble.

Not to mention having to clear up my work afterwards. No one messed with my work.

And sure enough, this was different too.

Neither I nor Sherlock were desperate. Papers weren't shoved from desks. Lips weren't crashed together. For Sherlock, it was simply something to take his mind off his unholy boredom. For me, it was something to stop my mind thinking about where we were and what was going to happen next.

A distraction.

That was all.

There was nothing romantic about it.

Even as Sherlock's fingertips skimmed over the underside of my forearm, leaving a tingling trail as they worked upwards, I could see in his eyes that we both knew that.

It was like we said – neither of us loved the other, and neither of us wanted to be loved by the other – but as Sherlock's tongue danced across my collarbone, that was all that mattered. We didn't need to think about anything else.

The orange glow of my lighter cast long shadows from my fingers as they skid down the satin material of his jacket, coming to rest in the crook of his elbows. He shifted so that he was no longer lounging across me, easing my legs apart so that he could kneel between them, his mouth never once leaving my throat. It wasn't as rough as his usual bedroom demeanour, but it was still undeniably in his control. As everything always was.

I brushed off his jacket, not liking the wall it put up between our skin, and his hands were moved from my arm and thigh in the process. They returned seconds later, now on my waist, and I ironically shivered at the sudden warmth. He had, of course, completely by-passed my shirt and attached his hands directly to my skin. That was Sherlock. Ignoring anything that he didn't have any interest in.

As if reading my thoughts and the slight smile on my lips, in one movement he swept the top over my shoulders and head. I watched as it landed in a heap somewhere on the desk, Sherlock having haphazardly discarded it without thinking.

I dug my fingers into the front of his shirt, my mouth opening in a silent gasp, as his hands slid carelessly upwards, their touch burning my pale skin, moulding themselves into the subtle curves of my stomach. His teeth were now nibbling on the crook of my neck and I had to force back the small giggles as the curls of his hair tickled the base of my jaw. As if anticipating my laughter, his mouth quickly left my collar and found its way back up to my lips, stifling any sound that might escape other than the low groan that was swallowed immediately by the kiss.

The inside of his mouth tasted faintly of tea, and even fainter still of something minty. Toothpaste. He really hadn't eaten since yesterday. It was amazing he had the energy for anything, let alone this.

His tongue was gentler than usual, sharing control of the kiss with mine, but I recognised it made no difference. It was he that had me pressed against the wall. It was he whose touch was holding my torso in place. It didn't matter how hard I grasped at his shirt or how eagerly I kissed him back. I was his. And most definitely not the other way around.

His thumbs were already stroking across the lace of my bra, the delicate threads and patterns grazing my skin with the movement. It was the soft tugging rather than the quiet click that first alerted me to the fact that he had undone the clasp in the centre of my chest. I lowered my shoulders and drew away from the wall as he peeled the bra away, my rounded breasts grateful to be free of their sheaths and able to appreciate the warmth of his hands absolutely, with no barrier between them.

I bit down on Sherlock's bottom lip as his fingers toyed with my nipples. A guttural sound echoed out of his throat as I fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, wanting them hopelessly to become undone. I wanted to touch that skin, to feel that warmth pressed to my front while my back shivered against the cold wall behind me.

I could sense Sherlock's restraint. It was clear with every touch of his hands how far he was controlling himself. My control was wavering. I simply didn't have the patience anymore. Why had I bloody sewn on these buttons so well?

I finally managed to get all of them unhooked, but didn't bother to actually unwrap the shirt off of his shoulders, my naturally cold hands far too eager to explore the contours of his chest for that.

I pulled away from the kiss, my eyes opening again to the hazy golden light. Sherlock seemed to understand what I hadn't yet said for he made no objections as I pushed him backwards. My tongue found his Adam's apple and his hands left my breasts, instead being placed somewhere behind him, allowing him to lower his body down onto the floor as I leant against his chest. I nipped enthusiastically on his jaw line as I clambered on top of him, my thighs straddling his hips. His grasp returned to my waist, soothingly stroking my sides, his hands surprisingly soft thanks to the faithful gloves he wore so often.

I shoved the front of his shirt out of the way and found my mouth casually meandering downwards over his upper body. I let the familiar scent wash through my nostrils. It was Sherlock's smell, and it was just as odd as he. Vaguely like chemicals, but not nearly as harsh, some sort of subtly perfumed soap, maybe lavender, and something deeper, more natural, like fresh air after a storm. I usually hated anything remotely chemical, knowing that they reminded me of hospitals and ergo blood, but somehow it fit with Sherlock. Somehow, I couldn't quite imagine him smelling of chocolate or bubblegum.

My kisses traced swirls over his muscles, my hands egging them on. My lips flicked their way down his torso to his abdomen, where they parted and my tongue began attacking his bellybutton. I smirked slightly as I felt the tremor that travelled up Sherlock's flesh under my palms. My fingers found the buckle of his belt, groping with it until it fell open. I slid my hands lower until they rested on either thigh. Sherlock moaned quietly as my teeth started playing with the already taut zip on his fly. After the initial effort of getting it to shift an inch or two, the zip practically jumped down, and I busied my mouth with popping the top button free.

I yanked at his trousers and pants until they were far enough out of the way. Then, painfully slowly, I drew the tip of my tongue along his underside. This time Sherlock's groan was nowhere near as quiet and I found myself keenly lapping at the faintly salty taste of his skin and sweat. Sherlock's breathing grew heavier with every moment I spent in the process, and soon I knew it was time to pull away.

I shrugged out of my jeans and remaining underwear, before climbing up to kiss his lips once more. I stretched over until my fingers found the silky material of his jacket of the floor, digging hurriedly into the pockets until I pulled out what I was looking for. I popped open the wallet and slid out a thin blue packet. His palms began massaging my back and my mouth pressed ardently against his as I ripped at the small packet, drawing out the slippery object inside. I pulled away and sat up, so that I could see what I was doing as I rolled the condom down over his length.

His jaw was set and his eyes scorching, but apart from that his face was expressionless. His hands secured themselves firmly onto my hips. My palms reached out and settled on his shoulders.

I took in a sharp intake of breath as I guided him inside me, before gently starting to rock my hips up and down. I had completely forgotten where we were and what was going on. All that mattered was the feelings of the moment. And at this moment the feelings were becoming rapidly better and better.

Sherlock began controlling the speed, his grip directing my hips, his own thrusting up to meet me. I shifted and lowered my upper body, my forearms brushing across the scratchy carpet as I made my way towards his lips again. The kiss was rougher this time, and broken occasionally in our tempo. My ankle jerked outwards and I faintly heard something clattering as the orange light suddenly shifted. I didn't really care what it meant as my breathing started escalating and my heart beat pounded in my ears, but Sherlock apparently did. Without breaking the kiss he sat up, keeping our rhythm as he groped blindly around behind my back. His back stretched as he dropped something onto the desk beside us with a clang. Curiously, I opened my eyes, now biting ferociously on his bottom lip. Of course, the lighter. My jaw slackened and my eyebrows rose as I noticed what Sherlock was now bringing down from the desk clutched tightly in his grasp.

He lay back down on the floor, his other hand abandoning my waist and wrapping its way around my neck, pulling me down with him as his mouth began assaulting my throat, a small moan escaping my lips with every thrust.

I squealed at the sting as Sherlock brought the fine metal ruler down swiftly on my backside, his clutch around my neck the only thing keeping me from jumping a mile upwards. The pain burned, the freezing metal surely reddening my now hot skin. But I found myself whimpering in appreciation as he repeated the action. My short fingernails dug into his shoulders as I pulled my oesophagus away from his lips and instead buried my face into the crook of his neck, barely containing the yelps of pleasure with each synchronised thrust and strike.

My blood was surely boiling by now – I knew that every brush of his skin felt like fire. I couldn't keep this going. We would certainly explode in flames if we did. I was sweating, palpitating. Each movement felt like climbing a mountain.

With one final swish of the ruler my body erupted, the monumental wave of feeling sweeping over me, causing my brain to black out and my mind to only revel in the sensations of those seconds. The fine hairs on my arms stood up as all the muscles in my being systematically clenched and relaxed. I felt Sherlock tighten under me and knew that he too must be feeling something akin to this. I was certain the combined pleasure would kill us. My heart must have stopped for far too long to be healthy. My pulse was clearly not within the normal bounds of a fit human.

And then it was over.

I collapsed and rolled off of Sherlock, resting myself against the refreshingly cool wall.

Christ, maybe this was why I put up with him.

* * *

_Review maybe? I dunno if I'm any good at writing this kind of stuff.  
_


	5. High Water

**Five**  
_**High Water**_  
_When: 20 (Inflammable)  
Warnings: Angst & dangerously soppy fluff _

The first time I saw Sherlock sleeping, I wished I had been in a state of mind that could actually appreciate just how cute the sight was.

It must have been pretty darn early in the morning; even through the heavy curtains I could tell it was still dark out, and there weren't any sounds from John's room apart from the occasional grunt in his sleep. I don't know how long I had slept, but I doubted it was more than a couple of hours, despite just how exhausted – both mentally and physically – I was. I knew that my eyes must be drooping oddly and that there must be nice heavy bags below them. I hadn't had a proper night's sleep since last Friday. And today was Tuesday.

Sure enough, the small green angular numbers on the microwave confirmed my thoughts. 03:17. We'd only gotten in at midnight.

I clicked the kettle on before wandering into the living room, thinking there might be some book or something that could distract me for long enough to fall asleep again. I paused shortly after entering, gazing down at the form already there.

Sherlock.

Curled up on the couch like a giant cat.

I wouldn't have believed he was actually sleeping if it wasn't for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest with every slow breath he took. No one breathed like that unless they were asleep. Especially Sherlock. It was just too calm. Too _normal_.

I cocked my head at him and continued to watch, finding it somehow soothing. It was stupid of me not to realise he would be down here, having been up in his room. Where else would he have been? For some reason, I couldn't imagine John letting Sherlock bunk with him, although Sherlock probably wouldn't care as long as he got somewhere to sleep.

I narrowed my eyes. But Sherlock must have been into his room while I was sleeping. He had changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown. And of course, he hadn't woken me up in the process at all. That man sure could sneak around quietly. He had showered too; he didn't smell of petrol anymore. But it must have been a while ago since the bath had been completely dry fifteen minutes ago when I popped in.

The freezing water had helped. For a moment I had almost forgotten as the cold burned away my thoughts. The water had stung as it hammered down onto my face, but that only meant I didn't notice the tears so much. My entire body hurt, and washing away all the grime and accelerant was the first step in recovering.

I should have showered earlier. Now Sherlock's sheets were stained with petrol that I doubted would ever truly wash out. I was positive I would have to throw out my clothes anyway, but right now the crisp cool cotton of Sherlock's shirt and boxers felt oddly nice against my skin. I reached up and tucked my sopping hair into a loose bun at the base of my skull, knowing that getting a cold on top of things would not help much.

I forgot about the cup of tea I was planning to make and instead closed the distance between myself and the sofa. I realised that it would wake him up – I didn't really know but I was guessing that Sherlock was a light sleeper, what with his constant sensory overdrive – and one part of me didn't want to disturb the great consulting detective during one of the few times he ever rested. The other part of me, however, was stronger.

I wanted human interaction.

To feel connected to something that was still alive. Something that knew exactly what had happened last night, but that didn't care about it. Someone who didn't care what I had done.

I had killed someone.

Even thinking it made me feel nauseas and caused shivers to run down my limbs. It was so wrong. I didn't care about love or relationships or building a happy family life. I didn't enjoy being constantly around others, although small doses of their company were appreciated. I didn't want to know about their tedious little lives or their petty thoughts on celebrities. But I still respected them. And I understood just how much these things meant to others. I recognised how many people can love someone just for existing.

And I had stopped that.

I had stopped someone's life and destroyed an unknown number of other people's love.

She had a son, of course – the dentist.

I slowly perched myself on the edge of the sofa, the fabric dipping under my weight. Sherlock didn't stir. As quietly and softly as I could muster, I swivelled around and lay beside Sherlock, so that my back was less than a centimetre away from his chest, my legs tucked up just the right amount to allow me to lie there without falling off the couch or disturbing Sherlock. He didn't move but I knew I had woken him. His breathing had become its normal self.

We lay there in silence, not even touching, for at least a minute.

Finally Sherlock moved as he began twisting his body away from me. He grunted.

"You're cold."

I reached out behind me and grabbed one of his arms, stopping him from turning away. I shuffled closer to him and wrapped his arm around my waist, enjoying the warmth that was emanating from his body.

"Exactly." I muttered quietly.

Half of me had expected Sherlock to push me away, complaining about how I was far too cold and that if I wanted to sleep somewhere it would have to be on the floor. But he didn't. Sure, he grumbled some more under his breath and I could picture the correlating scowl across his expression, but he didn't try to get away. A small part of my mind even thought he might have tightened his grip around my waist.

I knew that I shouldn't have got to feel like this after what I had done, but somehow, lying there curled up in Sherlock's arms, I couldn't help but relax a little bit.

And as Sherlock's breathing returned to the slow gentle rhythm indicating he had fallen asleep again, I couldn't help but do the same.

* * *

_Gah, more fluffy at the end than I originally thought. You don't get much of that in this story, do you? Also, I know this isn't technically something that deserves an M rating, but it just didn't fit in with the style of the main story, so it's in here._

_Anyways, I'll get another chap up in the main fic next, as now theyre both running at the same time. _

_Oh and thanks Flarire for the colossal review a coupla chaps back. I don't really wanna answer any of your questions here directly, but don't worry, things will be happening that do._

_Review times?_


	6. Every Cloud

**Six  
**_**Every Cloud  
**__When: 27 (Incensing)  
Warnings: Smut_

The first time I had what most people would consider a proper argument with Sherlock Holmes, I hadn't expected it to end the way it did.

It wasn't just that the kiss was unanticipated; it was more how easily the words had spewed out of my mouth. Even as Sherlock forced me backwards, my back connecting painfully with the edge of the kitchen doorway, I could still hear them echoing inside my skull.

_I like you._

Because I did. Over the past few days I had been coming to terms with that fact.

But that still didn't make it any less surprising when I actually voiced my feelings.

"John's not going to be back for a while, is he?" I made out breathlessly between attacks of Sherlock's frantic lips, my fingers digging into the depths of his dark curls. I was glad I kept my fingernails short – otherwise his scalp may have started bleeding rather uncontrollably.

"Not for another two hours and six minutes." He replied, his voice equally rasping. "Roughly."

I somehow managed to press the curves of my body further into his form, defying just how much contact I thought was humanly possible.

"Good."

Right now, I didn't think we'd make it all the way upstairs in time.

I stepped forwards, driving Sherlock with me, steering him vaguely in the direction where I thought the sofa must be. My hands unclenched themselves from his hair, but were swiftly replaced on his shoulders, tugging at his jacket until it came free and fell to the ground by our feet. I was suddenly aware that I was wearing far too many clothes. Something needed to be done about that. Now.

"At the-"

"I know." Sherlock interrupted, his grasp lifting from my neck as one hand slid down to the top of my back, where it didn't even fumble and the zip of my dress slipped downwards. I shivered as the all too familiar warmth of his touch grazed my spine.

Suddenly his light strokes ceased.

I gasped loudly when his legs struck the edge of the couch, taking us both off balance and causing him to instinctively make a grab for the nearest object. Which happened to be me. We landed with a humph on the cushions.

"You alright?" I murmured. As shown by how my tongue hardly left the vicinity of his mouth, I didn't really care about the answer to that. He could have been shot and I doubted either of us would stop.

Sherlock seemed to agree with this statement. "Shut up."

I had no problem with that.

I shifted my weight to see that I wasn't just lying straight on top of Sherlock, so that I was effectively straddling his right leg, albeit far more horizontal. I started awkwardly fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, for some reason forgetting completely how the simple contraptions worked. I only managed to coerce the top two undone before I gave up entirely, instead resorting to burrowing my palms under the material to reach his abdomen.

My lips had found their way to the base of his jaw by the time Sherlock had begun yanking at the light jersey covering my shoulders, slowly rolling my sleeves further down my arms, leaving more flushed skin exposed to the chill of the air around us. Grudgingly I had to except that pulling my arms out fully was impossible without removing my hands from his stomach first. I shoved myself upwards slightly and helped him peel away the cloth over my hands, only then realising that this meant my entire upper body had been freed from the constraints of the dress.

My mouth landed back on his, where it rightfully belonged, our lips moulding together once more. The lace of my red bra scratched against the silk of his shirt, the friction causing me to moan noisily into the kiss. Sherlock engrossed his fingers into what he could of my tresses, before deciding that the only proper way of doing it was to take out that annoying claw clip so that he could rummage through my hair correctly.

I bit gently on his bottom lip and pressed my lower half against him, causing a low grunt to emanate from his throat.

Sherlock obviously forgot where we were.

A sharp exhale got rid of any unwanted oxygen in my lungs as my backside crashed sorely into the hard flooring.

"Ow!"

Sherlock had oh so cleverly rolled us right off of the sofa.

"Oh my God, are you ok?" I asked shocked as my eyes came back into focus after the sudden impact had left them temporarily confused.

Sherlock barely hesitated a second. "I thought I told you to shut up?"

And then his tongue began assaulting my windpipe. Amidst the caresses and soft nips on my neck I almost forgot what was wrong. _Almost_.

"But you're bleeding!"

During our fall from above the abrupt movement had clearly caused my teeth to bite a little too hard for someone's liking – the red liquid seeping smoothly out of Sherlock's bottom lip was evidence of that. I would have felt guilty, had not been entirely Sherlock's fault in the first place.

"Not much." He dismissed without even lifting a hand to check the damage to his face, instead placing it rather distractingly on my right breast. Christ, this man was determined when he wanted to be.

"Sherlock, I think-"

But what exactly I thought was quickly forgotten when a sneaky finger unexpectedly found its way up the inside of my thigh and underneath my satin panties. I drew a pointed intake of breath.

"You think what?" I heard Sherlock hum against the skin on my throat, the vibrations adding to the sudden pleasure.

My breathing was more than a little shoddy as I tried to come to any sort of answer to that. "Nothing."

He pulled away from my neck, ploughing his lips down onto my mouth. The metallic sting of his blood tingled on my tongue, and although in normal circumstances the taste would undoubtedly have made me gag, at this point in time I barely even considered it.

The faint drone of Mrs. Hudson's TV reverberated up through the floorboards as I felt my way down Sherlock's torso until I reached the cold metal of his belt buckle at the bottom. I jerked at it until at long last it came loose and I was free to tug down the zip of his fly.

Sherlock aided me as I shoved down his trousers and underwear just far enough, his other hand easing my thighs apart and manoeuvring my remaining clothes out of the way. I had to suppress the yelp as he pressed into me, my insides stretching to compensate for the new intruder.

He started rocking backwards and forwards, our kiss completely abandoned as his face buried itself into the crook of my neck, supporting himself on his lower arms above my shoulders. I tried desperately to keep control of my brain as Sherlock increased the tempo, but soon found that my body's reactions were far superior to my mind in matching the rhythm, any thoughts of what Mrs. Hudson might be hearing vanishing and being replaced by a string of incoherent syllables and words dancing through my head.

I raised my knees to grant him better access and shut my eyes tightly, my hands gripping the back of his shirt in order for me to have some sort of grounding in the physical world that wasn't pure pleasure. We were quickening, the steady pace losing its regularity and being replaced with whatever the either of us could manage. I didn't even recognise what was approaching as the fire built to almost unbearable heights.

Far too soon I was tipped over the edge. Every muscle in my body tightened as the sweeping euphoria rushed over me. I felt Sherlock tense and heard the groan as he too fell into the dark abyss of ecstasy, his thrusting grinding down until it stopped completely.

It was at least a minute before either of us could move again.

Then the warmth of Sherlock's body rolled away from me and I was exposed to the chill of the air.

I lazily pried open my eyes to see him standing. He did up his trousers and tried to sort out the mess I had made of his shirt.

My head lolled to the side.

And I saw it. Lying, bold as brass, on the carpet right beneath the sofa.

"Sherlock," I said still trying to catch my breath, "Is that a _riding crop_?"

"Yes." I heard footsteps getting further away from me, but was curious as to the level of calm in Sherlock's voice as he spoke. "And a good one at that."

I forced myself up on my elbows so that I could see him digging about under some papers on the kitchen table. "What are you doing with it?"

Sherlock found what he was looking for and I rolled my eyes. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and fastened the fresh nicotine patch to his skin. Smoker after sex, apparently. "Experimenting."

My eyebrows rose in shock. "With what?"

"I needed to discover the level of force necessary to break the skin."

Ok…? So, what? He had whipped himself or something? All in the name of a case, of course, nothing else. Except I hadn't spotted any crop-shaped bruises or scars anywhere on his person, and even though my powers of observation weren't the highest in the world, I doubted I would have missed anything like that. But that could only mean…

"On who?" I asked, now getting rather worried. It didn't matter that I was positive that certain people would happily pay Sherlock rather large sums of money in order to be beaten by him with a riding crop, this was getting rather too strange.

"On a particularly useful cadaver at Barts."

My face dropped.

All kinky ideas immediately disappeared.

"_You whipped a dead person_?"

"Of course."

Yeah, naturally.

Sherlock frowned and then lifted his fingers to his lips. He pulled them away and examined them, as if not understanding what was happening. He gave me a confused glance.

"Am I bleeding?"

* * *

_Hey hey! _

_Review time again folks! Yes, indeedy!_


	7. On Your Sleeve

**Seven  
**_**On Your Sleeve**__  
When: 37 (Indelible)  
Warnings: Smut_

The first time I let my emotions get the better of me, I didn't think about what Sherlock Holmes would make of it.

It wasn't like us. We weren't one of those couples. Hell, I wasn't even sure if we were indeed a couple at all. It still seemed too soon to call us that, or too mushy, or too plain normal. Anything soppy or clingy or remotely normal in a relationship had been abandoned by us since the first fateful time I let my curiosity get the best of me. It had been my idea to approach Sherlock, and even then it was purely from an investigative point of view. He had deduced my inaptitude for emotional attachment. I had realised his sociopathic nature.

We weren't capable of love.

Even now, I wasn't in love with the man, and he certainly wasn't in love with me. But the fondness – and a fondness was irrefutably there between us – was unnervingly unexpected. The only time I had so far expressed this fondness was when I had shouted out that I did like him, no matter what a twisted mess he was. Actually showing our emotions, let alone in such an intimate way, had been silently banned from the beginning of our liaison.

Talk was just that – talk. Meals were just meals. Walks were just walks. Sex was just sex. Anything else would have been unsightly.

And yet right now, is this desperate moment, it was plain to see that something had changed.

Sure, Sherlock's face was no more expressive than usual. I had no clue as to what he would be thinking as he shoved me backwards, gripping me closely as we lowered onto the bed. By the very nature of the grip, however, I knew something was different.

Sherlock didn't like touching people. He wore gloves whenever he left the sanctuary of his apartment, except, of course, when experiments or investigations required otherwise. He would act like he was protecting himself from the cold, but it was obvious that it wasn't that. A touch, however small, was too intimate. Even in our moments of passion he had kept contact to a minimum. I would grab at him. He would graze his hands over my body in analysis. That was all there was. Now his palms were doing more than explore inquisitively; they were reaching, taking, holding.

My hands in turn were deviating from their usual actions. I was no longer simply grasping automatically, spurred on by my body's primordial responses, but instead caressed and clutched. The warm skin of his chest and shoulders was more than just flesh – it was Sherlock. His three-tiered scent confirmed it. The familiar chemicals, the flowery perfumed soap, and heavy underlying petrichor filled my nostrils as I deepened my breaths. It, just like his skin, was more now than a smell. It too was Sherlock.

And that was what I needed. After so much pain and terror, it was the only thing I felt I really needed at all – Sherlock.

My body reacted to his touch as it never had before, sending more than little shivers of pleasure up and down my form. When his fingers slid across my bare breasts, the hair on my arms stood on end. When his lips traced a line down my torso, small quivers reached their way to my toes. When his nails dug ever so slightly into my hips, the darts of pain seemed utterly insignificant.

From either of our perspectives, it was exquisite, but for any unwelcome onlookers it would only have appeared hurried and messy. Neither of us was concentrating on our actions; even Sherlock with his faultless mind lost his pace once or twice; but physical perfection was not the purpose of our movements. We weren't concentrating because we didn't care about how we were doing this – the only thing worth caring about was that we were.

We needed to touch each other, to feel the other's heart racing beneath our hands, to ensure that they were truly there.

As Sherlock pressed inside of me, our bodies aching, I pushed myself upwards, wanting as much bare skin to meet his as was possible. I desired nothing less than the melting of our flesh so that we would be fused together. After my horrific day, the thing I truly wanted was to be as near to him as our physicality would allow, and this was the way to go about it.

As we moved I grasped at his back and head, tangling my fingers into his already dishevelled hair, attempting to pull him closer to me, although we were already packed tighter than most people would ever enjoy. His jaw dug itself into the base of my neck, my shoulder surely becoming bruised with the pressure. His face was so buried into the pillow beside my head that it crossed my mind for a second that he might suffocate himself without realising it, but that thought was soon swept away with all the other unimportant details.

I moaned and groaned, my gasps becoming more frequent with every passing second. Now and then Sherlock would make a bass-filled grunt that reverberated through the base of my spine. My toes curled, tugging at the sheet below with every subtle movement. I could taste the salt of my sweat and former tears drip into my open mouth and onto my awaiting tongue. My eyes clamped shut, blocking out any unwanted sights that would only distract from the feelings of the moment.

When the final release came to me, it didn't even matter.

The immense physical pleasure was undeniably there. The streams of gratification rolling off of our forms as we lay still, panting for enough air, was proof enough of that. And yet, despite just how different this time had been, the outcome was ultimately the same.

An orgasm was just that – an orgasm.

It was something else that had been present this time which hadn't been there before – not just the satisfaction of mere corporal needs, but what that something was escaped my powers of description. A bond, albeit small, had been consummated.

Sherlock rolled away as soon as he caught his breath. He stood, just as he always did after we had sex, and swiftly began dressing. His actions, his lack of facial expression, were no different from his usual demeanour.

Something _had_ changed, however.

In his own incredibly elusive way, Sherlock had shown me what I had so urgently wished to see.

He had been worried about me.

* * *

_Last instalment of The Game That We Play, I'm afraid. The finale to The Game That You Learnt will be up soon, as well._

_Review, yes?_


	8. They Fall

_Welcome back! _

_Like Part One, this section starts with a little retrospective look at an event in Melanie's past._

* * *

**PART TWO  
The Game That I Lost**

* * *

**One  
**_**They fall  
**__Warnings: Drug references_

The first time I truly expressed my thoughts to anyone, it was only because of extreme pressure from outside forces.

I hadn't wanted to speak to them. I hadn't even wanted to be in a situation where the mere suggestion of speaking to them would be an option for consideration. All I had really wanted was to carry on, shut myself away from reality and deny that anything needed to change.

I had known that something was wrong. Who wouldn't have? I wasn't that far up shit creek. I knew exactly what I was doing and to what extent it was affecting my life, but that didn't mean I wanted to change. And that was sort of the point. In some ways, it would have been better for me to be in complete denial about the whole thing.

It started with a mistake.

A minor one, really – for most teenagers it would have meant nothing but a short yet uncomfortable conversation followed by a return to their normal ways.

That was what happened with me, too. My mother had sat me down one evening, a serious look in her eyes, and talked. Just talked. I had nodded occasionally and spoken up at the right moments, done everything in my power to convince her of something that wasn't true without voicing the lie, and felt a worrying thrill up my spine as I was doing so. It had worked. That was probably the single most important factor in my downfall. They believed me.

My confidence had made me sloppy.

And my normal ways were a little more risky than the average teenager.

As I approached my seventeenth birthday, the rules began to fade and my daring climbed. Some were thrown out of the window completely. By January I was no longer being selective about location. By February I no longer cared about quantity. Most crucially of all, by March I had discarded my rationality.

On some level, I suppose, I was growing tired with the monotony of the deed. Yes, the euphoria was still there, and yes, I still felt a tingle of satisfaction with every successful secret. But it wasn't enough anymore. It was repetitive. It was easy. It was _boring_.

My reason was standing between me and the joyous freedom that only occurs during the best of the nods, when your mind is unlocked and any worldly concerns evaporate into the nothingness beyond. That short time when reason disappeared was too fleeting. I wanted to ignore it altogether.

Rule 6 collapsed.

On the twentieth of March, exactly seventeen years after my birth, this ruined me.

It wasn't that dramatic, really – not like how it's always portrayed in films and emotional lullabies. For me at least, there was little theatrics in what happened. Like most days, the cravings had been burning away at my limbs, and like most days, I yielded to them. I gave in to temptation, like I had done so many times before, and collapsed backwards onto my soft bed in bliss as the chemicals swept through my bloodstream. It was routine. It was normal. There were no subtle ideas in my brain that this time would be any different from the rest.

Nancy was the one who found me.

The tiny ten year old, who I was supposed to be caring for in the few hours between school and my parents' return from work, had wanted help with her maths homework. It was probably the thing I felt most guilty about in the following years. The task I had unknowingly assigned to her was far too great for a little kid.

She had dealt so spectacularly well with the problem. Her nerves and reasoning under pressure far surpassed the average ten year old. It was only because of them that I was able to go to university, receive my doctorate, get a decent job, and, all those years later, meet Sherlock Holmes. Without them, I wouldn't have woken up.

It was odd.

I didn't feel that bad about my parents' disappointment or the worry I had caused them. I didn't even feel that bad about forcing them to scrape together their savings in order to get me the help I apparently needed. I certainly didn't feel bad about the risk to my own life. What I did feel bad about were the little things – the stupid details that would usually just be a minor annoyance. My brother had to miss a couple of weeks of university. My mother had to rearrange an important meeting. My sister had to start walking to school as my father wanted to stay with me instead of drive her. They were insignificant consequences of my actions, and yet those were the ones that stuck with me over the years, like losing your favourite lipstick when your handbag is stolen or ripping your pair of tights when you fall over.

Talking was supposedly the first step to healing. _Healing_. Like I was wounded or something. I hadn't thought of my weakness as a wound or infection. It was stupid and a fault, I knew that, but my soul wasn't sick.

It was just… a little different.

Of course, I didn't tell them everything. While my boredom and frustration with my day-to-day life could be explained as hormonal mood swings, I doubted that the shrink would see my disconnection from everyone as something so simple.

They'd want to analyse me, to shove some label on my brain as if it were a specimen in a jar, and that was an idea I abhorred. I was cut off from the outside world. I sat inside an invisible bubble that let anything physical or factual permeate its membrane, but refused to yield under pressure from more abstract notions like emotional bonds. I liked my friends and family, and I knew that I should love them, but I didn't.

Everything was just _there_.

I was as honest as I could bring myself to be, and that was a lot more than I had been for at least ten years. I could see that the counsellor recognised this. He was grateful for my effort, if not my attainment, because effort was the most important thing. Changing your ways is of little use unless you're trying to do so.

And I was trying, more so than I would have probably liked to admit.

I didn't think that I needed to stop using, but I wanted to regardless. I wasn't fussed about my personal safety or how I was flushing my future down the drain. All the cliché concerns of an addict – how I had come far too close to death for comfort, how I was intelligent and could have a brilliant career if I applied myself, how I wouldn't let my family down again – they were trivial, but the immediate results of quitting were huge.

It was difficult.

That, although seemingly counter-constructive to my cause, was what helped me overcome the addiction. I wanted to challenge myself. Attempting something new and uncertain was what had dragged me down into the drug-world in the first place; now it was what pulled me out. Although the events of my seventeenth birthday ripped apart my known world and left a scar that would never truly be removed from my family, for me it had only positive outcomes. What had become a monotonous existence was turned on its head. New obstacles and experiences were forced upon me every day. It eradicated my boredom.

My effort was for all the wrong reasons, as the counsellor may have pointed out if I had actually told him the truth, but at least it was there.

It was utterly selfish. While I should have been worrying about my parents and sister, I was revelling in the unknown circumstances. That, too, I knew. But seeing how selfish you're being doesn't stop the thoughts being inside your head. You can wish a reason away, but it'll still be there, gnawing away.

It took a long time, but eventually my parents trusted me to be on my own again.

For a while it was unclear as to whether they would let me go off to university at all, but after many presentations of logical arguments and the stubborn fixing of my acceptance letters to the fridge, they finally agreed under the guarantee that I would continue counselling and visit them as often as possible. They never let me drift out of contact for more than a few days.

But that was fine with me. I could stand all the tedious phone conversations and long train journeys they threw at me, as long as I got some of my independence back. During those dire, exciting months when I was seventeen I had felt smothered. The cravings faded, the reason returned, but that smothering stayed with me. I hadn't appreciated my freedom to the level it deserved before, and now I was sure I would never undervalue it again.

Just as I had expected, when it got easier, the boredom gradually returned. It was too much to hope for that it would have magically disappeared with my cleaning up. It would have been far more shocking if it had, but as it was I just grudgingly recognised its seeping influence on my brain and accepted it as a part of my personality.

I tried to absorb myself in other activities to take the edge off. Schoolwork helped. It was still mind-numbingly easy, but with the arrival of the last couple of months of my A-level year and the following adventure to university, the extra breadth of independence in my choice of leaning topics at least meant I could start researching things myself instead of reading the set chapter in the textbook and repeating it parrot-style. My interest in history deepened. There was so much of it to learn, most of which we never even touched on in school. Ancient history from around the world was particularly curious. The contrast between the violence and beauty of the cultures thrilled me. It was something wholesome, something morally acceptable, something positively nerd-like, and yet studying took over my life.

This was something that could fend off that nagging boredom, and more importantly, it was something I was good at. It allowed me to prove myself, to show others what I was capable of, to receive that goddamn praise I was so apathetic about and yet so desired.

My research was a sign to the world that I wasn't that person anymore. I had crawled out of my drug-hell and become a truly different person.

My work was my second great addiction.

* * *

_The first chapter of _The Game That I Lost _should be online later tonight. Look out for it._

_I tried to make this like one long train of thought, but now realise that this might make it a little confusing to read. Did you guys find it ok? I know it's also a little bleak in places. Don't worry, I'm not about to go all suicidal and moanie on you. _

_Haven't asked this for a while now, let's see if I can still manage it…_

_Review? _


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